


Intruder

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, POV Outsider, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Pettigrew breaks into Filch's rooms to retrieve James's confiscated Invisibility Cloak and ends up seeing something he shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intruder

Filch's bedroom wasn't what he had expected.  
  
Peter flattened himself against the floor and sucked in his stomach as he wiggled his back half under the door. It was a tight squeeze, but with a twist and a scrabble, he popped out on the other side. He shook himself vigorously and straightened his whiskers, and then he transformed.  
  
The room shrank around him as he shot up onto two feet. He absently scratched the spot where his tail no longer was and then peered about with interest.  
  
 _operation: cloak recovery – phase three_  
  
James and Sirius had already sneaked in to rummage through Filch's office while the caretaker was mopping the third floor that morning, and Remus had managed to steal into Filch's workroom during the Quidditch match, but James's Invisibility Cloak—left behind on a mad dash out of the dungeons last night—still hadn't been found. That only left Filch's bedroom, which was secured with no fewer than three stout locks and accessible only to those with keys. Or those able to make themselves small enough to squeeze under the door.  
  
Now, however, Peter was wondering if he'd got the wrong room.  
  
There were no chains or bullwhips hanging from the walls. There were no complicated contraptions that could have either been table saws or implements of torture, and there was no all-pervasive smell of sawdust and cleaning potions. It was only a normal bedroom, furnished with a large bed, a desk, a night table, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. A small bathroom lay off to one side, and a window overlooking a courtyard to the other.  
  
He hurried over to the chest of drawers. Filch was supposed to be shut in his workroom with a pile of repairs for the foreseeable future, but that was no reason to dally. He peeked into each drawer, working his way down from the top.  
  
 _socks, vests, spare bedding, nothing_  
  
The bottom drawer proved more promising. It had to be yanked open, stuffed to the brim as it was with sweets and one-knut dreadfuls.  
  
 _come on..._  
  
Something glimmered in the back of the drawer.  
  
 _yes!_  
  
He snatched up the cloak and threw it over his shoulder. He nearly closed the drawer, but then he paused, hesitating for a moment before giving in to the temptation to dig through the rest of the treasure. Four packets of sweets quickly found their way into his pocket, as well as a comic book and a dreadful, and he was flipping hot-cheeked through a stack of photographs featuring ladies in their bathing costumes when a terrible sound brought his head up sharply.  
  
A key slid into a lock.  
  
 _!_  
  
The photographs fell from his numb fingers back onto the pile, and he hurriedly pushed the drawer shut as quietly as he could. His gaze darted to the window—  
  
 _can't get it open and shut quickly enough_  
  
—and then to the sheltering shadows under the bed.  
  
 _can't transform with the cloak_  
  
The second lock was turning.  
  
 _wardrobe!_  
  
He launched himself inside the cavernous wardrobe and shut the doors swiftly behind him just as the third lock clicked open.  
  
 _shh...shh...shh..._  
  
He held himself very still, pressed in between a crush of hanging shirts and trousers. In the narrow space between the wardrobe doors, he could only see the bed and the wall beyond it. The door creaked as it opened, and footsteps entered the room. Then the door shut, and the three deadbolts were turned again. He heard the sound of shoes being taken off.  
  
A shadow entered his line of sight, resolving into a figure.  
  
But it wasn't Filch.  
  
 _Snape!_  
  
Peter blinked in startled surprise. Severus Snape was walking casually into the room, in his stocking feet, carrying his book bag over his shoulder. For a baffling moment, Peter was once again certain that he must have tried the wrong door, but then he saw the smug little smile on Snape's lips and realised that the other boy must have broken in for the exact same reason.  
  
 _don't look in the wardrobe don't look in the wardrobe_  
  
He fumbled with the cloak, trying to draw it around himself silently. The cool shadow draped over him, and his fingers worriedly sought out any gaps. Snape couldn't be appealed to as a fellow student and probably couldn't even be bribed—not if it meant getting a Marauder in trouble. Worse still, James and Sirius would probably never speak to him again if he got himself caught.  
  
Snape didn't seem to be in any hurry to search for what he'd come for. Instead, curiously, he opened up his book bag and took out a slim book, which he tossed onto Filch's bed. Then he dropped the bag onto the floor and wandered out of Peter's line of sight again.  
  
Sounds followed.  
  
A door shutting. Water running. A toilet flushing. Water running again.  
  
 _should've run_  
  
It was too late now. Snape had returned, climbing onto the bed and settling in against the mounded pillows, book in hand.  
  
 _wait_  
  
 _what?_  
  
One aching minute passed, and then two, and then what must have been five. Peter's hand grew sweaty where it was braced against the inside of the wardrobe, and his legs were starting to ache, but he didn't dare fidget in case the sound betrayed him. His mind turned in fruitless circles, trying to puzzle out what Snape was playing at.  
  
Then: another key in a lock.  
  
Peter straightened abruptly, sending a hanger swaying. He froze, his heartbeat pounding. Snape glanced up, but he was looking towards the door. A wave of nausea rolled through Peter's stomach, followed by a very small thrill of excitement. He didn't want to be caught, but the thought of watching Snape get caught was delicious.  
  
The second lock, the third—the door swung open. Heavier footsteps this time, and then Filch stepped into view. For a moment, his expression was its usual dour droop, but then his face lit up with the sort of joyful grin that Peter knew meant trouble.  
  
Snape, however, didn't seem to be pissing himself. In fact, he turned his attention back to his book and thoughtfully turned a page as if Filch wasn't even there.  
  
Filch picked up the stout chair from in front of the desk—  
  
 _can't hit a student with a chair even if it is Snape!_  
  
—and moved it out of sight. There was a soft scuffing, and Peter realised he knew that sound: a chair being wedged under a doorknob.  
  
Filch returned, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the peg. Then he sat down at the edge of the bed, not six inches away from Snape, and took off his boots. It was just about the oddest thing Peter had ever seen in his life.  
  
"What are we reading?" Filch asked. His voice was unexpectedly soft, the way it was when he talked to his cat.  
  
Snape turned another page and pushed a lock of his limp hair behind his ear. "A bestiary of venomous beasts."  
  
Filch twisted to peek at the cover. "Studying?"  
  
"Recreational reading," Snape said.  
  
It sounded too normal—so normal it was freakish. For several seconds, Peter's mind was completely, stupidly blank. His thoughts spun without finding footing, and then the thought hit him: They...were related?  
  
The idea seemed bizarre on the surface, but as Peter poked and prodded it, he realised it made perfect sense. The two of them were so queer and unpleasant that they had to be kin. He smiled despite himself, delighted with the scandal of it. Filch must secretly be Snape's uncle, or some other close relation, and that was why Snape got all that special treatment. That was why he was here, lounging in Filch's private rooms as if they were his own. James was going to love this!  
  
 _but_  
  
That perfect explanation faltered when Filch put his hand on Snape's leg—well above his knee.  
  
"Up for something, then?" Filch asked. His voice was still soft, but lower now.  
  
"Mm," Snape hummed in consideration and shallowly shrugged. "Maybe. If you suck me off first."  
  
 _ha!_  
  
Peter's hand flew up to cover his mouth, and his throat clenched around a hysterical giggle in expectation of the blow-up. Sirius had ended up with a thick ear when he'd told Filch to kiss his arse.  
  
But Filch didn't so much as throw a swat.  
  
"Brat," he grumbled. His hand moved slowly down Snape's leg. Then it disappeared up Snape's robes.  
  
Peter felt his eyes grow as wide as Galleons. His mouth moved in a silent stutter behind his hand as he stared in astonishment at what came next.  
  
 _pale skinny legs grey pants coming down_  
  
Snape was still reading—or pretending to read—as his pants were tossed aside and his robes were hiked up. Peter swallowed hard, his mouth running dry as his gaze flickered down from the faint pink blush on Snape's sallow cheeks. He caught a glimpse of Snape's prick before it was wrapped up in Filch's large hand.  
  
He felt a tense twist in his stomach and closed his eyes. To his horror, he was getting a stiffie. Snape's pants were off, and Filch was touching him between his legs, and Peter didn't want to open his eyes again, but he couldn't help but peek...  
  
Filch was moving down on the bed, his arm curled around Snape's back and his mouth open. The noise that followed was quiet, but seemed shockingly loud in its strangeness.  
  
 _wet_  
  
Peter knew the insult, the words you threw around with your mates. Suck my cock—go to hell. She sucks cock—she's a slag. He's a cocksucker—he's a weirdo. All he could really see was Filch's greying head moving slowly up and down, but the unnerving sounds smacked softly in his ears, mingling with his own panicky breathing.  
  
Snape's oversized nose stayed buried in his book until Filch sort of shifted, doing something noisy with his mouth that made Snape's hands shake.  
  
"Ah!" Snape cried. The book was set aside. One of his hands curled around the collar of Filch's shirt, and the other pulled at the bed covers.  
  
Peter breathed out shakily. Snape's face looked different than he'd ever seen it: eyes shut, brows knitting together, mouth parted.  
  
 _wet red mouth_  
  
He had to brace his other hand against the side of the wardrobe to keep from doubling over, his stomach wound up tight and his prick suddenly so hard it hurt.  
  
Snape gasped and twisted, pushing at Filch's shoulder like he was trying to get away and then pulling with the next breath, groaning like he was in pain. Filch hummed low, and his head stilled, and there was a hungry, slurping sound that made Peter's knees quake.  
  
Filch's head stayed down for several long moments and then rose. Snape's prick, half-hard and softening, was glistening with spit. He had to be a ridiculously late bloomer, Snape, because you couldn't—  
  
 _you can't just_  
  
—no one would—  
  
 _swallow it_  
  
—spunk in someone's mouth.  
  
 _can you?_  
  
Filch's mouth pressed to Snape's neck as he began undressing him. Buttons parted quickly under his fingers, and he got Snape's vest off in one swift motion, like he had done this before, like he'd done this a hundred times before. The sight of other boys naked was nothing new to Peter, whose life had been one embarrassing shared bathroom and lax dormitory after another for the better part of five years. The fact that this was an enemy only meant that he was supposed to find it funny. But he found himself shifting uncomfortably when he saw Snape stripped from head to toe, his gawky limbs and sickly pale skin completely on display.  
  
Snape rubbed at the front of Filch's trousers. The size of the obvious bulge there made Peter gulp nervously, his face flushing hot in frightened excitement as Filch unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. It occurred to him that if he were caught out now, it wouldn't be detention, or even a beating. He would almost certainly be murdered.  
  
He pulled the cloak tighter around himself and leaned carefully forward, trying to get a better view.  
  
 _broad shoulders soft stomach hairy chest hairy arms_  
  
The dark trail of hair led down to the waistband of Filch's trousers. Snape unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his placket. Peter was expecting a glimpse of linen, but there was only bare skin.  
  
 _big thick holy hell_  
  
He couldn't take it any more. His hand crept down, brushing over his stiffie through the sweltering layers of his clothing. The contact made him shake, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip as he watched Snape play with Filch's prick, stroking it until it was even thicker and longer—so long that it nearly took both of Snape's hands, one above the other.  
  
Peter swallowed down a tortured squeak as he squeezed himself. This was miles worse than waiting for the other boys to fall asleep at night before he could wank, worse even than getting hard at his desk in the middle of class. It ached, every breath making his pants rub against him like burlap.  
  
Filch took off his trousers and abruptly stood up, his big prick jutting straight out in front of him. Peter tensed, but Filch only went as far as the bedside table, where he drew a tube of something out of the drawer.  
  
Snape rolled over onto his stomach and lazily slithered back until he was bent over the side of the bed. They were both facing the wardrobe now, and Peter quivered, torn between retreating into the darkness and craning his neck to try to see what was happening.  
  
 _what is he—?_  
  
Filch had squeezed whatever was in the tube onto his fingers, and he was doing something behind Snape's back. Peter could hear the baffling sound of something slick on bare skin. Then more of the stuff from the tube went onto Filch's fingers, and then the motion of his hand and arm was different—twisting—and Snape was breathing out hard, his hands planted on the bed and his head hanging down.  
  
At a nudge from Filch, Snape lowered himself onto his elbows. That ought to have been funny, Snape's bum stuck in the air like that, but now Peter could see Filch rubbing the shiny stuff from the tube all over his prick, and any vibration of laughter died in his stomach.  
  
Filch got even closer to Snape, obviously rubbing against him—  
  
 _rubbing against his hole_  
  
—and then Snape's face went funny again, and after an instant of dull incomprehension, Peter realised it wasn't just rubbing.  
  
"Unh!" Snape cried out, low and broken-voiced.  
  
Peter came.  
  
His whole body suddenly contracted, and his eyes stung with humiliated tears as he spurted helplessly in his pants like a thirdie. His breath came out in stupefied panting, and he was certain he must have been heard, but there was no pause or clamour from outside the wardrobe. Peter clamped his mouth shut, holding his breath, and trembled where he stood.  
  
Filch was rocking his hips back and forth slowly. Snape wiggled, moving like he was trying to crawl away, but only got as far as putting one knee up on the bed.  
  
"Mm," Filch kept humming, over and over again with each forward thrust.  
  
Snape's reply was nothing but breathy sounds at first, which soon became a soft "ah" in counterpoint.  
  
"Mm."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Mm."  
  
"Ah!"  
  
Peter, still wet with his own mess and barely softened, started to get stiff again as Filch moved more firmly. There was a slick, squelchy noise as he thrust.  
  
 _buggered buggery fucking_  
  
Filch grabbed onto Snape's shoulders. His hands were red and raw-boned against Snape's pale skin—big, next to the narrowness of Snape's arms—and Peter stared at the contrast, trying to wrap his brain around the evidence that they were two people, that Snape didn't just wank but had sex, got buggered, let the caretaker fuck him in the arse.  
  
"That's it, pet," Filch murmured, a tight and urgent note in his voice as he pushed into Snape's hole again and again. "Take it..."  
  
Snape buried his face against the bed and made a desperate sound, as though he were going to start crying, and it wasn't until an identical noise tried to eke from Peter's throat that he realized it was somehow a good sound.  
  
Filch changed his rhythm, drawing back like he was pulling out of him, or nearly so, and then pushing in again.  
  
"Fuck!" Snape shouted, the word barely muffled for all that it was directed at the duvet.  
  
Filch did it again, looking down, as if he were watching his prick disappear into Snape's arse. Peter tried to picture it, and couldn't, but the mere effort made him tingle with sweat all over.  
  
Snape cried out again, wordless this time, as he was rocked forward by the force of the thrust.  
  
 _has to hurt doesn't it?_  
  
The thought should have put him off, but it didn't; it only made him harder. He rubbed at himself through his robes, his pants damp against his overheating prick. Filch was moving steadily, with a little hitch at the end of each stroke, like he was trying to stuff himself inside as far as he could.  
  
"Oh God," Snape breathed, huddling over, his face hidden in his folded arms.  
  
Filch's hands slipped from Snape's shoulders to his hips, pulling at him to get him closer and moving so roughly that it seemed he could plausibly break Snape right in half.  
  
Peter fumbled with three buttons on his robes and got his hand into his pants. He touched himself with painful restraint, rubbing against the flat of his palm and then stroking only as hard as he dared, trying to stay silent beneath the growing sounds of two bodies vigorously smacking together.  
  
Snape reared up suddenly, his hands on the bed. He was hard again, his prick straining up and bouncing with every thrust.  
  
"Ah—ah—ah!" Snape stuttered, groping for himself and nearly falling forward as Filch slammed into him. "I need—"  
  
 _red cheeks hair falling in his eyes_  
  
Filch got his hand on Snape's prick and pumped it hard, making Snape brace himself and give a long moan. Peter gave in to his desperation, caution abandoned as his flurry of strokes matched Filch's.  
  
"There's my dirty little tart," Filch crooned, hips driving hard. "Such a nasty little boy... Always up for it, ain't you?  
  
"Shut up," Snape retorted, but his voice went up on the last word, and his mouth hung open, and he shot hard enough to nearly clear the bed.  
  
"Jesus..." Filch murmured, sounding almost admiring, and then his hands were back on Snape's shoulders, nearly around his neck, and he was almost lifting Snape off his feet with the snap of every thrust.  
  
Peter gasped, shutting his eyes tightly—poised on the edge and then driven over by the furious sounds that followed. Filch was grunting with effort, the low noises running together into a growl. Snape was panting and making little whinges in the back of his throat.  
  
 _Snape's mouth open lips wet_  
  
He felt himself wind up for it.  
  
 _does he ever suck Filch's prick oh god would it even fit?_  
  
The noises grew to a violent peak as Peter came all over his fingers and nearly choked on his tongue to keep from giving himself away. His legs shook and then locked. He swayed.  
  
"Oh," Snape kept saying softly. "Oh..."  
  
Filch breathed out heavily.  
  
The mattress sighed. The bedclothes shifted.  
  
By the time Peter could bring himself to look again, Snape was sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the bed. Filch was sitting beside him, rubbing his back briskly. As Peter watched, Filch's hand drifted down. His fingers rubbed over Snape's hole, and then two of them pushed inside.  
  
"Mf," Snape mumbled. His eyes were shut, and his head was pillowed in his arms.  
  
Filch bent down and rubbed his cheek against Snape's shoulder before kissing the back of his neck. Peter grew aware of the heat lingering in his face and his pulse still hammering in his ears.  
  
"Got to get back to work," Filch said eventually.  
  
"Fine," Snape said without opening his eyes.  
  
 _they do this all the time_  
  
The realisation was a small one in the scheme of things, and rather belated, but it sat heavily in his mind nonetheless. How long had they been doing it? Did they do it every day? The thought of Snape sitting in class, hunched over at his desk, secretly sore and slick under his robes, made Peter feel sort of ill with pleasure.  
  
Filch withdrew his fingers and patted Snape on the bottom. Then he stood up and walked over to the bathroom. Peter heard the sound of running water for several minutes. Snape lay where he was, seemingly dozing, his shoulders red where Filch had gripped them.  
  
"Lock up after yourself, all right?" Filch said when he reappeared. He put on his boots and coat and then left Peter's line of sight. The door opened and shut a few moments later.  
  
Snape rolled over in his wake and lay staring up at the ceiling for a while. Peter felt a little zing of annoyance at how little self-consciousness Snape seemed to display, naked and buggered and at home in his own skin. It was as if he didn't even know he was ugly.  
  
 _does it matter when he's the one having sex?_  
  
Snape got up and padded lazily towards the bathroom, his gait oddly loose. Jealousy turned Peter's mouth sour, and it was an inability to stay here a moment longer as much as pluck that moved him to slip out of the wardrobe the moment he heard the thunk of the bathroom door. He dashed across the bedroom and out into the corridor, where he eased the door shut behind him and proceeded with all due haste to Gryffindor Tower.  
  
Outside the entrance to the common room, he took off the Invisibility Cloak and wadded it up between his still-sweaty hands. Then he dashed up the stairs to the fifth-year boys' dormitory and hurtled himself inside to safety.  
  
"Took you long enough!" Sirius cried when he saw him.  
  
"We were about to come looking for you," Remus said.  
  
"Did you get it?" James asked, frowning worriedly.  
  
Peter was too out of breath from his run to answer. He unfolded the cloak and handed it over, nodding mutely.  
  
"Good old Peter," James said, flashing a grin as he shook out the cloak and inspected it.  
  
"There weren't any problems, were there?" Remus asked.  
  
Excitement swelled in Peter's chest, and he nearly fidgeted in pleasure at James's praise and Remus's concern. This was big. They would be buying him butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks for ages. He finally had something on Snape, something they could smack the snivelling git down with the next time he tried any of his tricks with them. More than that, he realised with slowly unfurling glee, they could make Filch do anything they wanted. All they'd have to do was threaten to tell Dumbledore what he'd been doing, and they could have free rein of the castle.  
  
He tried out the words in his head:  
  
 _Snape's a dirty little tart. He's so up for it, he let Filch bugger him._  
  
Then he opened his mouth. "Sn—"  
  
Sirius suddenly wrinkled his nose. "Merlin's teat—how come you're so sweaty? And why do you stink of mothballs?"  
  
 _fucking bastard_  
  
His excitement was abruptly extinguished. The flush that had receded returned with a vengeance, spreading hot to his ears. A clear, cold certainty seized him: they would know. Somehow, they would know he had liked it. Liked watching. They would know that he had come in his pants, and he would never live it down. They would know that even Snape could get someone to touch him, and they would look at Peter in comparison...  
  
Sirius would think it was hilarious, and James would think it was disgusting, and Remus would feel sorry for him. And there he would be, Peter the pervert, who was still thinking about Snape's wet, red mouth.  
  
"I—" he said, and then he broke off, shrugging. "I got stuck in a wardrobe while Filch took a nap."  
  
It was the first time he had ever lied to his friends.  
  
James chuckled indulgently. "Only you, Peter."  
  
The others laughed too, and even though James hadn't said it cruelly, it stung nonetheless.  
  
"I'm going to go have a bath," he said abruptly. He did smell of mothballs, and he was sweaty, and he needed to change his pants.  
  
He took three of the packets of sweets out of his pocket and set them on the mantel, where they were promptly ignored. The others were already gathering around James's desk, planning their next bout of midnight marauding now that they had the cloak back. He stepped inside the bathroom and then hesitated, watching through the doorway as James and Sirius bent their heads together, drawing plans on the map, and as Remus reached delicately over and brushed a bit of lint off Sirius's shoulder. No one looked back at him.  
  
It was fine, he told himself as he shut the door. He was just a good liar, that was all. They would bring him up to speed when he was out of the bath.  
  
He avoided his own gaze in the mirror as he undressed, pulling a face as he peeled off his soiled pants. The cold, drying mess of spunk inside made him feel ill. He shoved the pants into the pocket of his robes, planning to sneak them into the laundry later. Through the door, he heard a burst of laughter. He thought he heard his name.  
  
Frowning, he wrenched the tap on and blocked out the sound with a torrent of water.  
  
 _everything is fine_


End file.
